


Hardest of Hearts

by oneshadethemore



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, I have a lot of feelings, PWP, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, yes I know you all hate OCs but bare with me okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 22,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneshadethemore/pseuds/oneshadethemore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place before season 1, the story follows Jim and his relationship with a female OC, and it will get darker because that's how I roll. Eventually, spoilers for season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jim

**Author's Note:**

> The POV is alternated between Jim's and the OC's all throughout the fic, basically there's a Jim chapter and then an OC chapter and then a Jim chapter... you get the idea. So keep that in mind while reading! (:

1\. JIM  
  
Today was a horrible, horrible day. Fucking hell, I've had bad days before, but today was the bloody king of bad fucking days. Round of applause.  
Also, I seem to have forgotten how to knot my tie. I've been standing in front of the mirror for twenty minutes and I have accomplished absolutely nothing, but there's no way I'm going out without my tie.  
I could stay home, but people get mad when I ditch their stupid parties. For some reason, people like to be socially active and stuff. I only go because there may be new clients, new adventures, something interesting. Well, I also go to play my favourite outdoor game. It's called "How fast can I get you out of that dress and into my bed". Sadly, it never takes more than five minutes.  
Lately, I've been taking Sebastian with me, to make things more interesting. We play "Who can get you out of that dress and into his bed first".  
The jackass even wins, sometimes. To be fair, he's really tall. Like, freakishly tall.  
"Sebastian!" I call out from inside my wardrobe. No answer. I call out again, and hear his heavy footsteps getting nearer. He leans on the door frame, arms crossed on his chest.  
"What?"  
"Knot my tie," I say, but he doesn't move an inch. "Pretty please?" I sing-song in my childish high pitched voice which I know he hates.  
Sebastian rolls his eyes and approaches me. He takes my tie and knots it. My god, he really is freakishly tall, isn't he? Not that I'm short. He's just... a moose.  
"There," he snorts.  
"Why aren't you dressed?" I ask, only now noticing he's still in his work clothes, black jeans and an old grey t-shirt.  
"I'm not coming, I'm on a job tonight, remember?"  
"Oh, right," I furrow my brows. I despise the thought of going alone, and it must show on my face because Sebastian is suddenly pushing me out of the wardrobe from behind my back, firm but gentle, and he's saying that I'll be fine and that he'll be home when I get back. I sit on the edge of my king sized bed and pout.  
"James, c'mon, don't be like that."  
"I'll die of boredom, and it'll be your fault," I hiss.  
"Yes, okay," Sebastian sighs, and walks into the wardrobe again. He comes out of few moments later and hands me my favourite coat. "Here. Now for fuck's sake, get outta here."  
I snort loudly as I stand up and put the black coat on, then I storm out of the room without another word. The car is already waiting, I think it's been waiting for more than a hour actually. I get in and sigh, observing the familiar lights of London as they pass us by, all bleeding into one.  
I'm already bored.  
It's no news, really. I'm always bored.  
I'm bored as I get out of the car and I'm bored as I enter the hotel and I'm bored as the waiter takes my coat and I'm bored as I join the faceless crowd in front of me.  
Bored.  
I spot the host and walk up to him. Thank you for inviting me to your fucking awful Christmas party, I don't remember your stupid name but I'm quite sure you're some kind of smuggler, and possibly I've slept with your barely-legal trophy wife. Or was that your barely-legal trophy daughter? Oh, well.  
I go to the bar and get myself a scotch and soda, then I dive back into the crowd. People are talking to me. I have absolutely no idea who any of you are, but since you're talking to me I'm guessing we did business together, or - in the case of the dumb blonde who is now playing with my tie - I slept with you. Maybe both, who knows?  
I very charmingly take the bimbo's hand off my tie and excuse myself. I need more scotch.  
"Scotch and soda," I tell the bartender. "Easy on the soda."  
The room is big and noisy and there are people everywhere, I see horrible ties with unmatching shirts and slutty evening gowns in alarmingly bright colors. I got a room this morning, now the question is who do I lure into it? I scan the room, but don't see anything worth the effort. There are a couple of good looking girls, but they're the oh-so-vulgar-and-slutty kind of hot. I like my women having some self-respect, so I can take it from them.  
The shot girl is very pretty, but her make up says daddy issues. Way too easy.  
Then I see her. How have not noticed her earlier? Holy hell, I feel like I've been hit by a bus. She's at the bar, talking to some entrapreneur I know to be a wife beater and a murderer. Basically, a shitfaced dickhead.  
She's stunning, actually stunning, wearing a long black gown that leaves her back nude all the way down to the dimples on top of her beautifully round ass, and on the front, the dress has long sleeves and covers her up to her collarbone, perfectly fitting her silouhette.  
Tom Ford, or maybe Armani.  
She doesn't look like a gold digger, and there's no ring on her finger so it's unlikely she's involved with any of these... gentlemen. Could be a high class whore, but there's something about the way she holds herself that screams professional. She smiles at the shitfaced dickhead and brings a martini glass to her lips, not flirting, just masterfully kiss-ass.  
Oh god, that smirk. She could kill someone with that. She's got more self-respect than all the women in the room put together, and she looks like a fucking evil queen or something.  
I straighten my tie and walk up to the shitfaced dickhead with a charming smile.  
"Christopher Morrison, how long has it been?" I greet him. He shakes my hand firmly and smiles widely.  
"James! It's so good to see you. How have you been?"  
"Good, good, how about you? How's your lovely wife?" I ask, with just a hint of irony.  
"Thankfully, under control, thanks to this lovely lady over here," he smiles even wider, and gestures at the mystery woman beside him, who smiles at me. "Helena, this is James Moriarty," Christopher adds, and Helena - what a beautiful name - holds out a hand and says it's nice to meet me.  
"The pleasure is all mine," I flash her my most charming smile and softly kiss her hand. She seems taken aback by the gesture, but her perfect smile never falters. Someone waves at Morrison from other side of the room, perfect timing.  
"Excuse me," he says, and Helena smiles again as he leaves.  
"Another round for the lady, and scotch for me," I say to the bartender, and the woman looks at me with a hint of curiosity. The guy places our drinks on the bar, and I take a long sip of scotch.  
"So, I take it you're a lawyer," I smile at her. She drinks her Martini slowly, then licks her lips and I want to do her on the bar.  
"Defense attorney, yes," she says.  
"You must be a bloody good one to have Morrison as a client," I smirk.  
"Half of the gentlemen in this room are my clients," she smiles again.  
"Mine too," I say. "And yet we've never met before."  
"What do you do?"  
"I solve problems," I say, my stare going from her light eyes to her beautiful lips and back up again. She smiles.  
"So do I. I'm guessing people come to you when there's no legal solution, though."  
"More or less," I reply smugly, then I finish my drink. Helena tears her eyes away from mine for the first time when her phone rings. She takes it from the little black purse she'd placed on the bar and answers it. I look down at my empty glass and gesture at the bartender to fill it.  
"Helena Stevens," the woman says firmly, with a hint of annoyance. "I can't talk right now. Drop by the office in the morning and I'll see what I can do," she sighs. "Of course. Goodnight," she says then, and hangs up. She puts the phone back in her purse and turns her stare to me once again. I raise my eyes from the glass to meet hers and smile.  
"I need some fresh air," I say. "Care to join me?" I ask. I saw cigarettes in her purse, hopefully she'll jump at the chance to smoke one.  
"Sure," she smiles. I lead her to the balcony and she immediately lights a cigarette while I lean on the railing. She stands beside me and watches the night sky. I could try to impress her with my knowledge of astronomics, but something tells me it's not the right move. A woman like Helena probably wants someone who isn't afraid of her, who's more powerful than her. Yeah, she definitely likes it rough. No, no, let's not think about that yet, if I get distracted I'll surely screw this up.  
Focus. Powerful, unafraid, rough. Basically, I'll just have to be myself. Never tried that before.  
I stand behind her, and she notices. She turns her head slightly, not enough for me to see her eyes, but enough to catch another of those killer smirks. I brush her red curls away from her shoulder and lean in closer.  
"I must say, Helena, your dress could turn saints into sinners," I whisper in her ear, and again she turns around and smiles.  
"I know," she says. "That's why I wear it."  
She lets out a cloud of smoke and I'm still breathing on her neck, and my god I would like to bite down on it and draw blood. My hands gently rest on her hips, and I slide them all the way up to her waist, then back down. Helena inhales deeply and then another cloud of smoke escapes her mouth, and I kiss her neck so softly that she gets goosebumps. She throws her cigarette off the balcony and into the garden beneath us.  
"James," she says calmly.  
"Yes?"  
"Do you have a room?"  
"Of course."  
"I'd like to see it."


	2. Helena

2\. HELENA

I let him take my hand and we swim through the crowd, towards the elevator. As soon as the elevator doors close, I expect him to pin me to the wall, but he doesn't. His arm is around my waist, fingers playing with the fabric of my dress. I don't know why I'm doing this.  
James Moriarty, was it? Never heard of him, and that's strange, because I have heard of every criminal in London. And yet, he's been invited and he knows everyone downstairs. James Moriarty. I'll run a background check tomorrow.  
He takes my hand again and leads me to the penthouse, and I wonder why I'm doing this, though mostly I wonder how he can afford the Ritz penthouse even for just one night.   
It's his eyes, I conclude, black pools of madness. And his Armani suit, and the Alexander McQueen tie. There's something extremely sinister about him, and I'll admit, I've always liked my men sinister. Growing up, my ideal man was Mr. Blonde from Reservoir Dogs. A psychopath who looks good in a suit.  
Nothing has changed, since then. Maybe that's why I became a defense attorney, to increase the chances of meeting psychos.  
And here he is, the man of my dreams. He loosens his tie and grins like I'm a gazelle and he's a lion. What he doesn't know, is that I'm no gazelle.  
He takes my dress off and takes his suit jacket off very calmly, and his eyes never leave mine, and he never stops grinning. When he pushes me onto the bed and climbs on top of me, there's a strange light in his eyes and my god, I want him to stop being such a gentleman.  
He must have read my mind because suddenly he's kissing me so violently that I almost want him to stop. Except I don't really.  
He bites my neck and the first, low moan escapes my lips. I can't keep it together anymore, and I take off his shirt and he smirks and slips out of his trousers.  
He grinds on top of me and nibs at my neck again, then he's kissing me and biting my bottom lip and I can taste blood. Oh, no, this is very bad, Helena. You won't be able to avoid wanting to marry him, now.   
Somewhere between him taking my pants off with his teeth and me taking his off, I notice a couple of scars on his chest. They don't look like surgery scars, but right now that's all the reasoning I can get done because his tongue is circling my nipple and I want to die more than ever before. No, scratch that, because he's biting it now and my deathwish grows even deeper.  
And when he moves south I wish I had my gun with me so I could shoot myself right now because nothing will ever be as good as this is. He keeps my legs apart with his hands while I dig my nails into the mattress, and I feel like I could stay like this forever. But I don't, because this man is a gift from god and far from me to be ungrateful, so I push him off me and crawl on top of him. He seems surprised, but in a very good way. I kiss him and then proceed to leave a trail of wet kisses from his neck down to his abs. Mr. James Moriarty seems like he's about to implode when I run my tongue from the base of his cock up to the tip, so I tease him a bit more - okay, a lot more - before taking him into my mouth. My tongue is still masterfully working his length as I suck it. He trembles under me and I kiss the tip of his cock before going back up to his neck and biting down on it as hard as I can. He growls like a wild beast, then he grabs my shoulders and pushes me back down onto the bed with such strength and violence that I'm almost frightened. Oh, you are truly the man of my dreams, Jim.  
He reaches out a hand to take something from his trousers pocket, but I stop him, and I'm too breathless to tell him why we don't need a condom, but we don't, we really don't.  
"Sure?" he asks, his voice deep and throaty. I nod. I'll explain later, maybe.  
He takes my wrists and pins them down above of my head, his grip so tight it's gonna leave bruises. I hope he knows that if he bites my neck one more time I'm gonna scream. Oh, hell, apparently he does. The bastard grins before kissing me again, and while he's doing that he finally thrusts into me and there's actual fireworks in my brain. I wish my hands were free so I could pull him closer, but he keeps them locked above my head with one hand, while he uses the other to balance himself on top of me.  
At this point, I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. He's violent and he's rough and he's completely insane and I can see in his eyes that he could still be so much better. I manage to free my hands as he gives another perfect thrust, but he doesn't look displeased by that. I put my hands around his neck and he kisses me again and I dig my nails in his shoulders and he growls from the back of his throat, then grins again.  
I hadn't been bottom in a very long time. I always top, mostly because men are clueless so I have to do all the work if I want to get somewhere. I could roll us over and have my way with him, but why? This is so much better, and a lot less effort too. So what I do is arch my back until it hurts and move my hips in circles around him, and the look on his face and the growling sounds that that gets me are my new favourite things in this world.   
He finds a steady pace, and rocks into me with an unprecedented passion. But you can do better, Jimmy, I know you can.   
"Harder," I whisper in his ear. "Harder, James..."  
He smirks and suddenly he's even rougher, his hipbones smashing against mine with each painful, perfect thrust. I will have pretty bruises to look at and remember this moment. I'm scratching his back with my nails now, and he goes even deeper inside me. Oh, perfect, beautiful, insane, psychopath. Be mine, James Moriarty.   
I feel myself getting close to release, and I want to hold it back but I am too far gone to manage that. I don't know if I actually screamed, I'm not a screamer, well, not usually. Okay maybe I did scream, just a little bit. James looks very proud of himself, and he gives a couple more glorious thrusts.  
"Helena..." he breathes, and I nod again, I want him to come inside me, and the best part is that he can do it without any repercussions whatsoever. He smiles, a very bright and evil smile, before giving a few more thrusts and finally wasting himself inside me.   
Holy hell, that was glorious.   
He rolls off of me and chuckles to himself, and I can't move but I turn my head and look at him, and he meets my eyes and smiles again.   
You perfect little bastard. Who are you?


	3. Jim

3\. JIM

I wake up and my back is killing me. It feels like someone really heavy walked all over it, but it stings and it burns too. I sit up on the bed and look behind me. There's blood on the sheets.  
Oh. Helena is still here. Well that's not surprising. Usually I'm the one who leaves as soon as they fall asleep. Why didn't I leave? Maybe because I couldn't walk. Yes, that must be it.  
Helena is half covered by the sheets, and holy fucking hell if she isn't the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.  
She looks even better than last night, now that her hair is a mess and she has bite marks on her neck and shoulders and bruises on her hips and wrists.  
Hadn't had such great sex in years. She is a wild animal. I mean, the things she did with her hips and her tongue... And she told me to hurt her, she wanted me to be as rough as I could.  
I could marry this woman.  
I lie back down and ignore the burning and the stinging in my back from where her nails dug into my flesh, I stare at the ceiling and wonder what I should do now.  
I could still leave. I should, actually.  
But then my phone rings and she groans. Goddammit.  
"Yes," I answer it, trying to keep my voice down.  
"James, where are you?" asks Sebastian.  
"I'm at the Ritz."  
"You slept there?"  
"Yes."  
"She must be really hot."  
"You have no idea."  
"Alright. See you later."  
"Yes, bye," I say, then put the phone back on the nightstand. Helena rolls over and looks at me with a devilish half-smile.  
"Good morning," she says.  
"'Morning," I reply. What now? How do I handle this situation? I could say I'm late for work. Which I'm not, obviously. I could just say bye-bye and leave, that's more me.  
I don't do it. Instead, I find myself taking the hotel phone on the nightstand and fucking shit what the bloody hell am I doing? I call room service. Why do I do that? No fucking clue.  
"Coffee or tea?" I ask her. That's it, I'm 100% done with myself. What the fuck are you doing, Jim?  
"Coffee," she says, and she looks confused. Oh, honey, I feel you. This is all very confusing. I tell room service to bring us a lot of coffee. Like, a shitload of the stuff. And some cookies.  
Helena furrows her brows when I mention the cookies, then she gets up. Oh, fuck me. That is the best looking ass I have ever fucking seen. She puts on her underwear, then she curses under her breath and slips the long black dress on.  
"James," she says, looking out of the window, and it sounds just like it did last night on the balcony, her voice is velvet and the subtext is dirty.  
"Yes, love?" I say, trying to remain calm, trying not to have a boner, trying to just put my trousers on.  
"What time is it?" she asks. I glance at my phone and tell her it's almost 8 o'clock, she nods silently but I can see that she has somewhere else to be. Oh, please, please, leave. Go and never come back. You'd make a very pretty corpse, Helena, and every time I look at you a new way to end your life comes to my mind. You have no right to be so fucking beautiful, you have absolutely no right to make me feel like this, like I want to see you in a white dress, vowing that we'll have crazy hot sex every night for the rest of our lives. Holy hell, please, just leave. If you don't, I'll have to rip your pretty little throat and hang you upside down like a pig...  
The door. I open it. There's a waiter, and for a second I'm very confused, but then I remember the coffee. The guy comes in and places the tray on the table under the window, I tip him and he leaves.  
Helena doesn't sit down at the table, she pours coffee in her cup and drinks it by the window. She doesn't look uneasy. I mean, were I her, I'd be very uneasy. Slept with a guy you've known for ten minutes, had him do some pretty twisted shit to you, woke up next to him in a hotel room, and you just stand there looking at the skyline and drinking your coffee like it's not embarrassing at all and it's oh-so-normal?  
I'm in love with you, please marry me.  
I mentally slap myself.  
"Could you call me a cab, dear?" she asks me. "I have court in thirty minutes."  
I smile and take my phone. "Jerry," I say to my driver. "The Ritz."  
Jerry calls me a few minutes later, says he's here. I take Helena downstairs - no other words were spoken while we waited and I want to kill myself - and we get into the car.  
"A cab would have been fine," she smirks.  
"This is faster," I say. "Where to, love?"  
She doesn't tell me. What she does is press a button and the barrier dividing us from the driver goes down, and she tells him.  
I hate you with a burning passion and I don't even remember your last name.  
The car pulls over by a white building in Belgravia. Posh.  
"Thank you for the ride," she smiles maliciously. Oh, and what a ride it was, my dear.  
"My pleasure," I say, and kiss her hand like I did last night. She smiles a little brighter at that. "Will I see you again?"  
Her smile turns into an evil grin, and she leans in closer to me, until her lips are brushing against mine.  
"No," she whispers. She gets out of the car and waves me goodbye as she closes the front door.  
Oh. Oh, no.  
"Jerry," I growl. "Take me home."


	4. Helena

4\. HELENA

I slept with contact lenses on and now my eyes are on fire. I take the contacts off and put on my glasses, then change into a grey suit and do my make up. My body is a battlefield and it feels great. I should probably hide the bruises on my neck, though. Pity, really.   
When I arrive at the courthouse I get another coffee and review the case files one more time before entering the courtroom. Prosecutor Stark is already there and he eyes me curiously as I sit down next to my client, who looks nervous. I tell him to relax and leave everything in my very capable hands. I'm running on roughly four hours of sleep, but adrenaline is still rushing through my veins. Caffeine helps, too.   
Opening statements, first witness, yes I'd like to cross-examine, thank you very much, second witness, objection your honor, goes to credibility, oh Mr. Prosecutor you look surprised now, didn't you know your star witness was an alcoholic? How sad. Court is adjourned, bye bye.  
Stark follows me outside.   
"You're wearing glasses," he says, and he looks rather proud of himself for noticing.  
"So observant, Mr. Stark. I'm impressed. Maybe you should be more observant when you choose your witnesses, though."  
"Why are you wearing glasses?"   
"Why are you wearing that hideous tie? Did you lose a bet?"  
"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine this fine morning," he smiles.   
"Is there a point to this conversation?"  
"...Have a nice day, miss Stevens."  
I take a cab and go to the firm. The young associates stop talking as soon as they see me, I don't even look at them. I go inside my office without one glance at my secretary, but as soon as I sit down on at my desk she knocks. Come in, you useless human being, and please don't ask about my glasses or I'll shove the intercom down your throat.  
"Coffee," she says, placing a steaming cup on my desk. "Messages," she hands me some post-its. "And here are those records you requested," she puts a heavy beige folder down on the table.  
"Thanks. Get out," I say coldly. "No, wait, Hannah?" I call as she's closing the door behind her.  
"Yes?"  
"Get me a donut," I demand, wrinkling my nose as I contemplate the option of actually getting more than one.  
"A donut?" she repeats, confused.  
"Did I fucking stutter, Hannah?"  
Hannah looks terrified, she doesn't know whether to nod or shake her head, so she awkwardly does both before turning around and going to get me a bloody donut.  
I get it, yes, she's confused because she knows I don't eat carbs, or anything that's fried... I don't really eat a lot of things, do I? But seriously, right now I just want a donut. And maybe some fish and chips and a loaded gun to blow my brains off with.  
I light a cigarette and go through my messages. Mr. Collins needs me, says it's urgent, probably got busted with underage boys again, then there's Christmas wishes from most of my clients and my mother - who also wants to know why I never answer my phone - and then apparently Prosecutor Cartwright wants me to call her back. Well, why the hell not. I call her office.  
"Carrie Cartwright," she answers.  
"Good morning, sunshine," I smile.  
"Cut the crap, Helena," she snarls.  
"Oh, I get all tingly when you take control like that," I purr.  
"I have your settlement offer right here, and do you know what I think?"  
"That's it awfully kind of me to offer a settlement when I could just as easily tear you a new one in court?"  
"No. I think you're full of shit, actually. Your client is a murderer, and I will die before I let him off this easily!"  
"Look at it this way, honey bee: if you settle, my client gets five to eight years. If you don't, and decide to face me in court, he'll walk away a free man."  
"He won't, because I'll beat you," she replies, but I can hear in her voice that she's not as confident as she would like to sound.  
"Don't flatter yourself, Carrie, darling, because you know I'm going to destroy you in court."  
"Is that supposed to scare me?"  
"Yes," I chuckle. "Now, be smart for once in your life, and take the deal."  
"...I'll think about it."  
"Good call, princess," I smile again, and hang up.  
I know how this looks: it looks like I'm a badass motherfucker who never loses and is overly arrogant. I'm not, I swear. Well, maybe I am overly arrogant, but that's not the point. People fear me, and that's enough to get me everything I want. Like, in this situation: I have no bloody case, no solid proof of my client's innocence - mainly because he's a criminally negligent surgeon who has in fact killed a few patients - and no witnesses. Now, I don't bribe judges and I don't rig juries. I don't tamper with evidence and I don't pay off witnesses. There's a certain line that I'm not willing to cross, not because of my morals - I don't have morals - nor because I have respect for my profession, but only because that could get me disbarred or jailed up. I don't really care about ethics, god knows I really have no conscience... the only thing I care about is myself, and I don't want to lose my job or go to jail. So, what can I do to ensure that my client gets the best possible sentence? I can't have him aquitted, so I put together a legitimate settlement offer and make Mrs Prosecutor believe that I'm doing her a favour. Mrs Prosecutor is too scared to call my bluff, so she's gonna take the deal and everybody wins.  
There, now I know that you're not used to this kind of honesty and cynism, but please, wipe the shock off your pretty faces and go on with your lives.  
I go through the messages again, and there's one I didn't notice earlier. It just says "That suit looks great on you, but it would look better on my bedroom floor".  
Oh, no, no. Nope. Not happening, bro. You may be the man of my dreams, but... but what? I managed to avoid thinking about him until now, but I think I've run out of reasons not to see him again.  
When he asked if he could see me again and I said no, I was very serious. I didn't do it just to play with him, just to make him want me more. I said no because I'm terrified.


	5. Jim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys. Anyway, this chapter is a little... graphic. Hope you enjoy it!

5\. JIM

I can't think straight, this is driving me insane. That stupid little bitch better be prepared because I am coming for her. I grab a notepad and a pen from the coffee table and start scribbling the most complicated equations I can think of. Maths is great, I love maths and maths loves me, maths calms me down and it helps me think.   
After two fucking minutes I'm done with that shit and I collapse on the couch, waiting for death to take me away. Which he doesn't, because death is a cunt, just like everyone else.   
And then my phone rings and I don't recognize the number. Please, god, anything but another assassination... I'm bored of assassinations... also please, no terrorist cells today, I can't deal with people who can't speak proper English right now...

"This better be fucking important, or I swear to god I will trace the call and you'll be dead before you can hang up," I yell, rage swelling up inside me. 

"Hello, James," says her beautiful, perfect, velvety voice. I regain my composure and clear my throat.  
"Good evening," I say. "I apologize for the yelling, it wasn't meant for you."

"Oh, but I like the yelling," she purrs. Oh I bet you do, you twisted little bitch. "I got your message, by the way. Do you have people watching me?" she asks, but she doesn't seem bitter. She actually sounds... flattered.

"Yes," I smile. 

"I ran a background check on you," she says then. "I didn't find much."

"I'm hurt, Helena," I chuckle. "If you wanted to know something, you could have just asked."

"I'll ask, then. Why do you have a degree in mathematics?" she asks, and I chuckle again.

"Because I'm cool," I smirk. 

"Never met an evil mathematician before," she soothes.

"What can I say? I'm one of a kind," I say. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

"How fast can you get here?" she purrs.

"I thought you said you didn't want to see me again," I reply.

"Answer the question."

"Are you home?"

"Yes."

"Twenty minutes," I smirk. "But mark my words, princess, you are in over your head this time."

"Am I?"

"Find yourself a safeword while you wait," I threaten her before hanging up. 

I straighten my Westwood and go upstairs to my room, and as I go through my drawers to find the right equiment the mental images of what I'm planning on doing are making me hard already. The little bitch has no idea what she got herself into. 

I take two sets of handcuffs and my favorite switchblade knife, the one with the mother-of-pearl handle, then put everything in my briefcase and head out.  
The doorbell goes ding-dong and I hear the clicking of heels getting nearer and nearer, until finally the white door opens. Oh, you don't fight fair, do you, Helena? That see-through peignoir should be illegal, as should the black lace lingerie I can see underneath it. Oh, dear me, Miss Stevens, god was at the top of his game when he made you...

"You're late," she grins and it's almost a grimace, and I slowly close the distance between us and put an arm around her waist.

"45 minutes of waiting around, you must be quite mad," I whisper in her ear, then softly nib at her earlobe. Helena bites her bottom lip and gently traces a finger on my throat.

"I'm furious," she purrs, grabbing my tie and pulling me into a heated kiss. She's trying her best to fight her instincts, not willing to admit to herself how much she really wants me, but despite her efforts she's already taking my suit jacket off, never breaking the desperate kiss she's got me locked in. I let her toss my jacket on the floor while I close the door behind us with a kick, but if she thinks I'll let her off this easily, she's in for a surprise.

I grab her neck and push her away enough to look into her eyes. 

"Not so fast, kitten," I breathe. "Show me to the bedroom, would you?"

Helena catches her breath and leads the way, and when we get there I push her on the bed and leave her there while I place my briefcase on the dresser and open it. 

"So," I start as I take the cuffs out, "safeword?"

"I don't need one," she claims, and I must say that the arrogance in her voice turns me the fuck on.

"Don't be so sure," I smirk, turning around so she can see what's in my hands. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, and smiles at the handcuffs, but it's the knife that makes her eyes light up. A grin spreads across her lips and I can see lust and anticipation in her eyes. I just knew she'd be into this.

I approach her and push her down on the bed, then cuff her to the headboard, one set of cuffs per hand. I can feel her quivering under me, and it just makes me smile wider.  
I leave her there again, and go back to the dresser where I left my knife. I take my tie off, then my shirt and trousers, and her stare is so piercing it almost physically hurts. I take the knife with me and go back to her, and what a sight she is, tied up and sprawled on the bed. I get her out of her lingerie, and her breathing is already uneven.

I smirk as I trace her throat with the edge of the knife, and she nervously swallows just as I move the blade to her chest and breasts. I take my time with her, observing every inch of her beautiful body, watching it tense when I run the blade over it, making her want this even more. She's breathing heavily now, and I tease her left nipple with the cold knife while I run my tongue over her right one ever so slightly. She's shivering, and low, delicious, moans escape her lips. I switch, licking the left nipple and teasing the right one with the blade, and she's cursing under her breath, so I bite down and this time she's moaning my name. I chuckle and raise my head to catch a glimpse of her face, all the while running the edge of the knife among her breasts. Her eyes are shut tight and she's biting her bottom lip again, and it's enough to make my cock hurt. 

"Helena," I breathe, and she opens her eyes and looks down at the blade pressing on her skin. Her breathing speeds up and I take it she wants me to make her bleed. I smile evilly as I press the knife on her skin and trace it down to her stomach, leaving a thin crimson line in its wake. She moans louder now, twisted little bitch. Not that I'm complaining, of course, this is like a dream come true...

The blood starts pouring from the fresh wound, and I cut her again, on one breast and then the other, tracing the blade down to her nipples, and when it breaks the sensitive skin there she gasps and shifts under me, and her moans grow louder and she's stuttering my name again.

"J-James..." she breathes heavily. I want her to beg for it, this isn't enough yet. I put the blade down on the bed and lick the fresh wounds, savouring the metallic taste of her sweet blood. She groans and arches her back, and I lick the wounds on her breasts until I get to her swollen, bruised and bloody nipples. I run my tongue over them one more time, then I start sucking them roughly, and I can tell she's in pain but I can also tell that she's loving every second of it, because she screams obscenities and her whole body is spasming under mine. 

I take the knife again, and I let her know by tracing the blade on her abdomen before I spread her legs apart, and I know she wants me to touch her right there but I don't. I cut her one more time, on her inner thighs, and kiss and lick those wounds too as soon as they start bleeding. And there it is, she's calling my name again, and it's the best sound I've ever heard. Then I flick out my tongue again and I lick and suck her swollen center, and I don't know how much longer I can keep this up because I want to fuck her to death.

Helena struggles with the handcuffs, she wants me to free her, she wants to touch me and make me give it to her. I chuckle darkly and move back up, and I see the bite marks on her neck from last night and I bite her again in the same spot, and it must hurt really good because her back is so arched I'm almost afraid she's gonna break it. 

"Jim," she moans in my ear. "Goddammit, Jim..."

"What is it, love?" I breathe, and I trace my tongue on her throat. 

"J-Jim," she repeats, and that's probably the only word she can manage to utter right now. I know what she wants, but she's gonna have to say it out loud.

"Say it," I grunt as I grind on top of her, biting and kissing and licking.

"F-fuck me, James," she finally moans, but it's not quite enough yet, and I chuckle and bite her again. "J-James... please..." she manages to say. "Please," she repeats, and I kiss her mouth violently while she shifts and struggles with the handcuffs again. And I want to uncuff her, I want her to hold on to me while I fuck her, but I can't set her free right now, because if she does touch me with her perfect little hands I'll ask her to marry me. Somehow, even though she's begging me, I can tell that it's not because I've broken her or gained any power over her. She begs because she realises it's what I need to hear, she's used to getting what she wants and right now what she wants is for me to fuck her. 

Precious little bitch, anyone else would be helpless at this point, tied up and at my mercy, but not her. She lets me think I'm in control, but really she's the one running the show.   
So I grind my teeth and drive into her so hard that she cries out. I can feel her clench around my cock before relaxing again, and I need to focus on holding back or I'll come in a matter of seconds.

I thrust into her and she moans. Oh, princess, please shut the fuck up, I'm trying to concentrate here... but she can't shut up, of course she can't. Before my brain can register what's happening, my hands are at her throat and she's gasping for air. This would be routine, but for some reason I can't control my strength, and holy shit, she didn't give me a fucking safeword... not that she could say it right now, because she's choking. But I can't stop now, and I rock into her again and again and again, until her inner walls tighten around me so much it hurts, then relax, then tighten again so many times and for so long that I mentally congratulate myself, and her whole body trembles under me. That's it, I can't do this anymore. I come inside her and the pleasure courses through my whole body, causing my grip around her neck to loosen. She gasps for air and then she fucking chuckles. Oh my god, Helena, I almost killed you and your reaction is to have an earth-shattering multiple orgasm, of course it is, you perfect creature. 

I need a moment to process this and to remember how to use my brain, and when my it stops jumping around my skull in ecstasy, I fucking realise what just happened. 

I furrow my brows and before I know it I'm bending down to kiss her bruised neck. She looks confused and surprised when I raise my head and look at her, I try to suppress my urge to kiss her and instead I free her from the cuffs. I collapse on the bed next to her, my eyes fixed on the white ceiling. I feel her moving on the mattress, and I guess she's just stretching and straightening her back, but she does more that that. She turns around and rests a hand on my chest. 

I look at her and she gives me a weak smile, which I return the best I can, but my stare goes back to the ceiling almost immediately. I can feel her breathing slow down, I can almost hear her heartbeat go back to normal. I take a deep breath and I want to stand up and run away, for some reason, and I would actually do that but as soon as my abs flex in an attempt at sitting up, the hand on my chest forcefully stops me. She digs her nails into my skin but she doesn't open her eyes, doesn't flash me one of her killer smirks. She just holds me in place, and I don't want to run anymore.

I turn my head and outstretch my arm to take a cigarette from the pack sitting on the nightstand. I've lit it before I can remember that I quit smoking a few years ago. Helena looks up at me and I can't help but showing off by making smoke rings. She looks at them and smiles, I give the cigarette to her and she takes her hand off my chest to take it.   
I stare at her. She may be in over her head like I told her earlier, but then again, so am I.


	6. Helena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long for me to update! I've been really busy. Anyway, enjoy! I'm working on the next chapter right now, it should be up by tomorrow. :D

6\. HELENA

I don't feel like moving. My wrists are still burning from the restraints, and I notice that, sadly, I'm not bleeding anymore. He didn't cut deep, and I'm glad that he's such a gentleman because had it been my call, I would have let him cut down to the bone.

I give him the cigarette back, and he smokes quietly, his eyes on the ceiling. When he turns around to put it out in the ashtray on the nightstand, I see scars on his back. They look like the ones on his chest, but there's more of them here. In my job, I've seen my share of scars, and the ones he has look years old. He catches me staring and lies back down on the bed, he doesn't say anything. I'm about to say something myself, but his phone rings and he gets up to answer it. 

"What?" he asks, clearly annoyed and also sort of tired. "How would I know, Larry?" he raises a single brow and comes back to bed. "You did what?" he suddenly yells, and jerks up. 

"Put Sebastian on the phone," he demands then. "Sebastian, do the world a favour and empty your gun in Larry's face," he sighs, then hangs up without waiting for an answer, as if his word is law. He tosses the phone on the nightstand and this hanging silence between us should make me very uncomfortable, but it doesn't. It feels nice, to be honest. 

"For a second there, I thought I was going to kill you," he suddenly says, and it sounds very nonchalant, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"For a second there," I reply, tracing his chest with my fingers, "I wanted you to."

He turns his head and flashes me a smirk. "Say the word, pet, and I'll gladly grant your wish."

"I'll keep that in mind," I smile darkly. "I'll take a shower," I announce then, and get up to go to the bathroom. I turn around before opening the door, his stare meets mine and he smiles - an evil, crooked smile. I go inside the bathroom and close the door behind me.

As I get the water running, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. The bruises on my hips are blue, and if I keep this up they'll probably never heal. The bite marks on my neck are blue too, and the one he bit down on again tonight is red around the edges. I look down at my chest and smile at the pretty crimson lines. 

I get in the shower, and I can't help but think that this looks really bad. He must never know that this was my first time doing... that. I've always wanted to try, but never found the right man. Is it wrong for me to enjoy these kind of things? No, I decide, it's really not. It's not like I'm being abused, here. I know very well what I'm doing and I want to do it. It's my choice. 

Most men think that just because a woman likes violence in bed, she must want them to be violent out of bed too. That kind of reasoning makes me furious. 

I don't know if James is that kind of man. I barely know who he is or even what he does for a living. But things are under control, because I don't plan on being with him outside of a bed. 

Please notice how I phrased that. I don't "plan" on being with him outside of a bed. That doesn't mean I don't "want to" be with him outside of a bed. Lawyer.

I make the water colder, attempting to distract myself from this train of thought. The soap burns in my wounds and I stand under the cold water longer than necessary. I don't want to go back into the bedroom, I already hate myself enough for giving up and calling him back. I told him I didn't want to see him again and after 8 hours I asked him to come here. This is bad. Striking fear has been tugging at my insides ever since we met - and that was roughly 24 hours ago but it seems like it's been forever. I haven't felt like this in a very long time, and it's scary because it's confusing. I got used to the fact that I don't feel... feelings the way other people do, yet somehow this man gives me butterflies. I'm confused. I don't like being confused.

I wrap a towel around me and convince myself to go back into the bedroom. 

He's not there, and the first thought that goes through my mind is a very long list of creative curse words. He sneaked out on me, the bastard. Of course he did. I'm... oh. His briefcase is still here. His phone is still on my nightstand and the knife is still on the bloodstained bed.

I look for him in the living room, then I see the lights are on in the kitchen. I lean on the doorframe and stare. He's only wearing his trousers, looking for something in the fridge, then gives up and closes it with a sigh of frustration. Then, he turns to face me and I'm supposing he'd noticed my presence because he doesn't look surprised. 

"Your fridge is empty, dear," he observes.

"I rarely eat at home," I explain. "If you're hungry, we can order pizza."

"I'm not," he states.

"Then why were you looking in the fridge?"

"For science," he smirks. "I'm curious about you," he says, and it sounds rather menacing. He inches closer to me, until our bodies are almost touching, then runs his fingers through my hair and grins evilly once again.

"I actually went through the whole house," he admits thoughtfully. "For science."

"Did you find anything interesting?" I ask, smiling calmly. He smirks and stares at me like he wants to make sure I really want to know.

"You've read all of your books at least three times," he starts, still playing with my hair. "The most worn out is Shakespeare's Macbeth, though. You seem to love reading but you don't treat books with the same respect you pay to movies. Your DVDs are in alphabetical order and in perfect conditions, and I saw quite a few magazines about cinema on the coffee table. Then there's the liquor cabinet, full of half empty bottles, mostly Martini and tequila. There's also champagne, but it's brand new even though it looks like it's been sitting there for a couple of months, so probably you don't like champagne or you don't like that particular bottle. Ah, and your closet is my favourite part. I couldn't find a single t-shirt, apparently you either wear designer suits, cocktail dresses or evening gowns. Lastly, the only things in your fridge are vegetables, eggs, a lot of fish and sparkling water," he concludes. He spoke calmly and slowly, sounding a lot like a professor giving a lecture. He looks at me expectantly, probably waiting for me to compliment him on his discoveries. 

"I don't think this is fair," I say, resting a hand on his heart and looking up at him. "Now you know more about me than I do about you."

"Oh, I think it's perfect," he smirks, but quickly tears his eyes away from me and makes his way back to the bedroom. I follow him, god knows I want a second round, but when I get there he's tucking the shirt into his trousers, and he doesn't even glance in my general direction.

He knots his tie carefully and puts his jacket on. I stand there in my towel and stare at him. He's really elegant, but not in an uptight way. Just effortlessly charming.

He cracks a little smile when he picks up the knife to put it back in his briefcase, then he slips his phone into his pocket and finally looks at me. Why do I feel like crying?

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks. 

"Like what?" I retort, quickly regaining my composure. Jim approaches me like a predator, he tilts his head curiously while caressing my neck, and a chill runs down my spine.

"Like you want me to stay," he whispers. At that, I snap back to reality and gaze up at him, defiant.

"I don't," I state.

"Very well," he smiles a crooked smile which I don't return. He walks past me and I don't move an inch until I hear the front door slam shut.


	7. Jim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long, guys! This is kinda short, I know, I've been busy. Enjoy!

7\. JIM

 

I should be feeling really good about myself right now. A part of me actually feels brilliant, but another part - a very small part - wishes I hadn't run away. Then there's the part that wonders why I didn't just sneak out while Helena was in the shower, and to that question a fourth part answers that it would have been too easy and it wouldn't have hurt her as much as leaving right under her nose did.

Because that was the point of this, wasn't it? Hurting her? 

I could have killed her. Everything would be simpler now if I had... but I don't like "simple", I really don't.

I collapse on the sofa as soon as I get to the living room, and I want a drink but I'm too lazy to get up. I take the phone from my pocket and save her number as "that fucking bitch". I giggle, but I feel no better than I did five seconds ago.

I want to set her house on fire.

"You okay, boss?" Sebastian asks, behind me.

"Get me a scotch and soda," I say in a monotone. "And stop asking stupid questions."

I can hear him sigh, and though I don't turn around I know he's rolling his eyes. He takes a few steps to the left to get to the liquor cabinet and in no time I'm sipping my goddamned scotch and soda.

I can still taste her blood in my mouth, metallic and sweet. It makes me want to go back to her place and chop her into little pieces which I'd then scatter all around London. It makes me want to kiss her and pull her hair and breathe in the very air she breathes out.

The empty glass shatters in my hand. Sebastian, who was still lurking behind the sofa, probably just leaning on the wall and cleaning his gun - he's creepy like that - jumps up and approaches me. He doesn't ask any questions, but moves to take my hand and get the glass shards that are still in it. I snort and push his arm away, then stand up and calmly head to the bathroom.

This mirror is too big. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to get such a big mirror? I can't help but stare at my reflection while I wash the blood away and pull out the glass shards from my hand. It stings. I exhale sharply and push the glass a little bit further into my skin before pulling it out slowly, enough to feel the rough edges cut into my flesh.

The piece of glass falls from my hand and into the sink and maybe I'll just pick it up again and slit my throat. No. No easy way out for me, that would be cheap. I didn't survive until now just to kill myself with a piece of broken glass in my stupid bathroom in front of this bloody mirror. 

How about I take a shower instead? That sounds more reasonable. 

 

*****

 

Three days, 7 hours and 31 minutes. Numbers are nice, aren't they? Black and white, perfectly rational, and yet exciting. Never boring, maths. You just change a few symbols, rearrange a couple of numbers and everything is brand new. 32 minutes. Hmm. I'm out of chalk but I'm not out of equations. 

"Sebastian!" I yell at the top of my lungs. I hear footsteps, then the door opens.

"Yes?" he asks. His stare moves from me to the blackboard behind me, than back to me. He arches a brow, but doesn't comment.

"I'm out of chalk," I say, facing the blackboard again. It takes up all the wall, so there's a ladder resting on it... "There should be some in my office."

"I'm busy, James. If you want a babysitter, hire one."

"Chalk, Sebastian. Right now," I hiss. He furrows his brows, but nods silently. 

33 minutes. There's something very wrong with the writing on the board: the endless equation is unsolved. Is that a plus sign? I scribbled with such anger that I'm having trouble reading my own handwriting. If that is a plus sign, though, I've wasted the last two hours on an unsolvable algorithm.

Oh, fuck me.

I storm out of the room just as Sebastian is coming back with the chalk. He quickly gets out of the way before I can bump into him and consequently punch him in the face.

"I'm assuming you won't need the chalk?" he calls after me as I stomp down the corridor, heading to the living room. I don't even answer him. 

34 minutes. Okay, that's it. My phone is on the coffee table, I pick it up and dial. 

"Frankie," I say as soon as the little shit picks up. "You're back on surveillance."

"Right away, boss. Same target?"

"Yes. Send me the photos as you take them."

"Yes, sir."

I toss the phone on the couch and collapse beside it. I wonder what she's wearing. Well, I'll know soon enough, won't I?

I should work. I can't just cancel my appointments for today, too. I have responsibilities, for fuck's sake. Sebastian passes through in front of me on his way out. He's on a job today, only came by to get the target details. When the door slams shut I take a deep breath. Something is off, I can't quite put my finger on it yet. There's a pit in my stomach, but it's not the usual pit in my stomach, the one I usually fill with murder and maths and schemes and the Bee Gees. No, this is different, this is... worse. It's like... that moment when you know you're about to vomit, when you can feel it and you know it's inevitable, except that the actual vomit never comes.

I wonder how good it would feel to snap her neck with my bare hands.


	8. Helena

8\. HELENA

Carlton Henders is a lucky bastard. Yes, he's lucky, because when he called twenty minutes ago I was still awake and therefore I won't beat him to death with a bat. It's 4.30 in the morning and I'm standing in Henders' house looking at a dead body at the foot of the stairs.

"So, he fell," I say with a patronizing smile.

"Well, I--I might have pushed him."

"Carlton, look at me," I demand, placing a hand on his shoulder. The man looks me dead in the eye, tense with worry. "He fell," I state.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay, alright."

"Now, I need all the details. Tell me everything."

And so he explains. Louis Sparks, 26, struggling actor. They were sleeping together, Carlton had promised he'd get the poor guy a few big auditions, but of course he never did. This is all so clichè, I think I might die of boredom. Apparently no one knew they were lovers, mostly because Carlton has a wife and two teenage daughters. Sparks threatened to tell everyone unless Carlton here got him his stupid auditions. They argued, Carlton panicked and pushed him down the stairs. How original.

"So where's your family?" I ask.

"Megan and the girls went to Brighton for the weekend, they'll be back tomorrow night..."

"Did you and Sparks have sex in the last 24 hours?"

"No, I hadn't seen him in two days, he just showed up at the door two hours ago and started yelling at me..."

"Hmm," I nod. I kneel down beside the corpse and smell it. "Did he look drunk?"

"M--maybe, I... I don't know."

"He smells like rhum," I say. "This is great."

"It is?"

"Trust me, it's your get out of jail free card."

Carlton nods nervously, he looks really scared. There's some irony in seeing such a big, tall, middle-aged pervert looking like a lost puppy.

"Call the police now. When they get here, tell them he was drunk and angry at you over not picking him for some auditions. You tried to reason with him but he was furious, he stumbled and fell down the stairs."

"O--okay, yes."

"The prosecutor might come later. He's going to try and confuse you, so don't be fuzzy on the details: he fell backwards all by himself, because he was drunk. You touched the corpse because you were trying to revive him. When you realized he was gone for good, you panicked and called me. You were really shaken, so I calmed you down and then we immediately called the police. Got it?"

"I--I think so, yes."

"Good. Use the landline."

 

***

 

Two hours later I'm home and I want to die all over again. Working takes my mind off things, but eventually I have nothing left to do and I lie here and stare at the ceiling. Sleeping isn't an option lately. I can't clean up crime scenes 24/7 though, can I?

I wonder if there's some sleeping pills left in the bathroom, but then I decide I don't want to know. I don't trust myself near pills, specially not at a time like this. 

You know when you think you have it all figured out, and then it turns out you really don't? That's how I feel right now, the confusion is unbearable. I would love to think my unhealthy crush on the mysterious Mr. Moriarty is the only reason and cause of my present mental state, but I know better than that. I know that what's driving me insane isn't the fact that I want him, but rather the reason I want him. I've been thinking about that in the past few days, and I've come to the conclusion that it's partly because I'm curious, but mostly because I have a deathwish. Suicide is one thing, but wishing someone would kill you dead is a whole other story. 

And yet I don't sleep because what if he cut my throat? Would I feel the blood rushing out? How long would it take to bleed out, assuming he doesn't hang me upside down? How long would it hurt before I start going numb? And what if he choked me, just like he almost did the other night, and I felt the pressure on my neck again and the air leaving my lungs, and my whole body was burning from the lack of oxigen, how good would it feel then, the slow but steady realization that life was leaving my body? How long before I'd faint and fade into oblivion? 

Ah, see? I'd never felt like that, I'd never wished to be murdered, until I met him. Oh, he'd do a damn good job of it, too. He could drown me, wouldn't that be nice? Somehow I know none of my theories can compare to what he'd actually do to me, and that's the best part of all this.  
I remember when I had my tubes tied, I woke up and I felt so... empty, so relieved. I think dying would feel very much like that, but a lot better. He'd do it and he'd do it good, and for some reason that excites me.

As I stare blankly at the TV screen, I notice something shining on the couch next to me, a little spot of light, probably the reflection of a lens or something... Oh.

I look out the window, trying not to be too obvious. There's a shadow behind a window on the top story of the building across mine. I grab my phone from my purse and dial his number. The phone rings a few times, then he finally picks up.

"Good morning," he soothes. "Up early, are we?"

"I couldn't sleep," I say. "What am I wearing, Jim?" I ask, smiling directly at the shadow across the street.

"Let's see," he says, and I hear the sound of a printer running. "Hmm, black nightgown," he states then, and I can hear a smile in his voice. "Your hair looks good like that," he adds.   
I instinctively run my fingers through messy bun.

"It's a shame that's not you up there with the camera," I say.

"Is that so?"

"Yes," I smirk. "If it were, you could be here in two minutes."

"I'm a busy man, Helena," he says. "Make it 20?"


	9. Jim

9\. JIM

 

The words are stuck in my throat. Insults, mostly, a few curses. Outsmarted by a fucking lawyer, this has gotta be a first. I feel like I shouldn't be surprised, I knew Helena has a way of always getting what she wants. She smiled, she said: "My rules today, James." 

I hate the way she calls me James and then Jim and then James again. It's stupid. Pick one. Besides, I don't like "James" - James Bond, James Brown, James Cameron, James Stewart, James Dean...

She threw my favourite shirt on the floor and she crawled on top of me like a panther and before I could even realize it she'd tied me to the headboard.  
I'm actually still tied to the headboard.

I chuckled at her smugness and perhaps that was my mistake, but then she unbuttoned my trousers and my chuckle turned into a throaty sound I didn't know I could produce until then. She was wearing pearl grey lingerie and I couldn't take it off of her with my teeth. It was infuriating. When her mouth opened around my cock, I decided there wasn't much to do except to rest my head on the mattress and hope she'd untie me after.

Her tongue ran up my dick and circled around the tip, just enough to make my head spin, then she took it in her mouth and slowly started bobbing her head. I could feel her hair brushing against the insides of my thighs and her hands gripping my hips, I could feel fire in my veins and ice in my lungs.

I should have known. To be fair, it was really hard to "know" anything at that precise moment.

She was so good it made me want to gut her. I felt it coming and I ground my teeth, but she slowed down, she let my cock out of her mouth and licked the tip again, so slowly it was almost painful. I wanted to yell at her but I couldn't, I wanted to make her finish but the knots around my wrists were very well-made. She licked her lips and stood up, turned around and slipped into a burgundy dress and heels. That brings us to right now, and right now I can finally form simple sentences.

"Helena, what are yo-"

"I have to go to work, dear," she smiles, cutting me off.

"I am going to slice you into little pieces and hide them all over London," I hiss.

"You're welcome to try and get out of those binds," she chuckles darkly. Oh god, I'm going to murder her so violently they're gonna need a DNA test to recognize her.

"You're going to be very sorry," I threaten. 

"I do like the sound of that," she smiles again, and bites her bottom lip. My still erect cock is very pleased by that, and for a second I lose control again. "Have a nice day, Jim. I'll be back at 6."

***

The clock on the wall ticks away every bloody second as I wait for Helena. I lost feeling in my hands and toes, and I think there's blood in my mouth from grinding my teeth too hard. This must be what helplessness feels like. I fucking hate it. I try to rip my binds again, but the stupid bitch knotted them like a fucking sailor. The only thing I can do now is fantasise about killing her in the most creative ways, yet somehow there's that stupid hole in my chest again and the red in my fantasies turns from blood to roses and I throw my head back to hit it against the headboard. It hurts and it's good because now I have the pain to focus on. Why does the anger only make me want her more? I'll die before I'll let her know that--oh. She'd die too, wouldn't she? Before letting me know? That's why she tied me to the bed, of course it is. She wanted me to be here when she got back, she wanted to be with me after work. She's me, preferring to bite my tongue off and bleed to death rather than telling her how she makes me feel.

Somehow this isn't helping at all. If that's her thinking then this is narcissism, this is loving her because she's like me. 

I thought it'd be easier to shake this off, but I can never do that now, can I? The clock keeps ticking and I wonder what I'm gonna tell her when she walks in and unbinds me. My phone, in my trousers which are on the floor, rings. It stops, then it rings again a couple of times. 3 rings, 2, 5. Sebastian. I should remember to call him back when this is over.

It's a quarter to 4. I think I fell asleep at some point because it was one o'clock last I checked. Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like if the concept of keeping time was never introduced. It's a social convention, just like everything else. Why can't people just think? What if we didn't measure seconds, minutes and hours and not even months or years, what if the only indication of time was the cycle of sun and moon and nothing else mattered? We complicated everything by inventing the clock. Would we notice the time passing as much as we do now, if no one measured it? Everyone thinks one day is a very short time, compared to years and decades, but we don't live years and decades, do we? We live days, endless days, and yet everyone refers to years as if they were just as short and meaningless. I can't fathom the thought of a whole week, how could anyone live in years and not in single days? Taking life day-by-day seems more rational, less stressful, to me. A day is such a long time, you can do so many things in one single day. You can have breakfast, lunch and dinner each in different cities in the same day, you know? The same stupid 24 hours. And don't even get me started on timezones.

I could have done so many things today, for instance, if only I weren't tied to a bloody bed.

Tick, tick, tick. I feel like when the clock reaches 6 a bomb's going off. Excited, that is, anxious, while at the same time angry and a bit... scared.

What do I even say? What threat could I possibly utter that would show exactly how I feel - but also not feel? There's a noise coming from the hall. Keys turning inside a lock, door slightly creaking as it opens and shuts. I hear heels and the sound of fabric, probably a coat being hung by the door. I hear a single step, then another slight creak. I imagine she's placed a hand on the dresser in the corridor and looked in the mirror straight into those perfect eyes of hers. I hear a sigh, then heels again. 

The door opens. "You're early," I hiss.


	10. Helena

10\. Helena

"You're early."

Jim looks at me like he wants to rip me apart. I put my purse down on the dresser with a cigarette in my hand, ready to use it as a diversion for when I need to think before I speak.

"I got bored," I state, hoping my voice won't betray the fear. The way his lips curl in disgust makes me want to run and hide. 

"Imagine that," he hisses. "Untie me, Helena. Now."

"What if I don't?" I ask. Maybe if I just pick up where I left off this morning he'll be less inclined to murder when I free him. One look in his eyes and I realise that Jim Moriarty is never not inclined to murder. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to. He looks up at me, then his stare wanders across the room and I can almost see the wheels turning in his brain. I cautiously approach the bed and his eyes are on me once more, scrutinizing my every move as I undo the knots around his left wrist. He closes his fist and his knuckles click, then he unties the other wrist himself. I'm too scared to do anything else, so I grab the lighter from the nightstand and light my cigarette. He turns at the sound, and I see his eyes piercing me through the first puff of smoke I exhale.

I try my best to keep a straight face, but my insides are turning. He gets dressed without saying a word, and I almost relax for a second. I walk up to him and adjust his tie without thinking - it was crooked and that bugged me. He catches my hand in his, his grip so strong I fear my bones might break, and cracks an evil smirk.

"I could break your wrist with just a slight twist of my hand right now," he whispers, and grips a little tighter. "I would love to watch your pretty face turn pale from the pain," he goes on, and I can feel my heart skip a few beats. "I won't do that," he suddenly soothes, "if you can answer one teeny tiny question." I nod and he smiles again. "What were you expecting to accomplish by leaving me strapped to the bed all day?" he hisses.

I blink a few times and lower my gaze, but his other hand grabs my jaw to keep my eyes on his.

"Break my wrist," I spit out through clenched teeth.

"Answer the question, Helena."

"No," I state, gaining a little courage. He twists my wrist, not enough to break it, but enough to elicit a whimper of pain from me.

"Answer me," he repeats. I close my eyes and refuse once more. He immediately twists again, this time all the way. I let out a strangled cry and fall on my knees, he lets go of my jaw, but he's still holding my wrist. He squeezes it and I bite my lip and groan in pain.

"Feeling chatty yet?" he asks. His head oscillates from one side to the other in a curiously reptilian fashion, but the pain is so sharp I can't hold my head up long enough to look at him while I speak. 

"Jim," I whimper. "Jim..."

He crouches down in front of me, his free hand tucks my hair behind my ear. He squeezes my wrist again and I exhale sharply to avoid screaming. The pain is almost blinding now, but I'm not going to let him break me.

"Just tell me what I want to know, kitten," he chants.

"No," I breathe. He lets go of my wrist and I clutch it to my chest, silently wondering if he plans on breaking any more bones tonight. He stands up and fixes his trousers, then disappears in the corridor.

I feel like I'm going to faint, so I try to concentrate on my breathing to slow my heartbeat down. There has to be something very wrong with me, I suddenly think, if instead of just telling him how I feel I preferred to let him break my wrist. I can't think straight at the moment, but that's going to be a great subject for inner debate, later.

"Give me your arm," he says calmly. I didn't notice him walking in the room. When I open my eyes, I see he's holding a washcloth full of ice cubes. I shakingly outstretch my arm, and he gently takes my hand in his to hold me steady, then places the ice on my wrist with his other hand and adjusts the cubes so they fit better. 

"Hold this for me," he says then, taking my healthy hand and placing it where his was, to hold the washcloth in place. I don't have the strength to say or do anything, so I idly take over. He takes his phone out and dials. He asks calmly for a cab and gives my address. I feel dizzy.

"You're a disgrace, Helena," he hisses, and takes over the washcloth for me.

"I've been called worse," I reply with the little voice I have left.

"I'm sure you have," he snorts. "If you ever pull something like this again," he whispers in my ear, "I will break your fingers off one by one before snapping your wrist in two, pet."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He doesn't wait for me to manage an answer, he just stands up again, slips his coat on and walks away. I feel tears in my eyes as I get up from the floor, but they won't come out. They just burn behind my eyeballs and I wonder if instead of tears it's my brain exploding.

Somehow I manage to leave my flat and wait for the cab outside the front door. I get in and ask for the hospital.


	11. Jim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry this took so long! Life is being a bitch and my laptop isn't helping either. Enjoy!

11\. JIM

 

Pins and needles in my hands and in my brain and everything else just hurts. Do you know what I hate most about her? The way she smokes. She holds her stupid cigarette as if it were a gun, careful and decisive at the same time, like she could blow your brains off any moment. Sometimes she just stares into the ember and rolls the cigarette between her index and middle fingers with her thumb, and the way she inhales is just obscene, goddammit.

I walk for a few blocks trying to clear my head, but the London fog is the smoke from her fags and the red traffic lights are blood, in my mind.

When she came into the room, I thought I would beat her to death as soon as she untied me. I was picturing her spitting blood while I kicked her in the stomach, begging me to stop. I'd just grab her hair and smash her skull on the marble floor. I didn't do any of those things. She touched my skin with her bloody perfect hands as she untied my wrist and I just went numb all of a sudden. No rage, no bloodlust, nothing. 

I was gonna leave and take it out on Sebastian or whoever I ran into first, but she just had to get that close to me, she just had to touch me, right? Something in my brain just clicked and I wasn't even thinking as I grabbed her wrist. I felt her bones snap under my fingers and my trousers were suddenly tighter. I'd started, and I felt like I couldn't stop.  
But I did. I stopped, I even got her ice and a cab. 

Right, the cab. Must have taken her to the nearest hospital, which would be St. Barths, not even ten minutes from here. She'll be alright. Not that I care. Besides, it's just a broken wrist, a minor injury, and it's not even her dominant hand. She'll be fine.

I get my phone.

"Moran," I say as soon as he picks up.

"James, I've been calling you!" he explodes, obviously worried. "Where the hell have you been?"

"I was a bit tied up," I hiss. "I'm supposed to meet Mr. Corrs in--" I glance down at my watch, "--twenty minutes, so I need you to take care of something for me."

"Sure, not like I had plans," Sebastian sighs. "What is it?"

"You don't have plans unless I say you do, Moran," I growl. I'm not in the mood for his snark right now. To be fair, I never quite am. "There's a file on our client at my flat, it should be somewhere in the library--or maybe the kitchen, I don't recall. Find it and get to work, all the instructions are in it."

"Got it, boss. Anything else?"

"I'm out of milk," I grunt, and hang up. 

The only feeling in my heart is anger. Pure, unadultered, rage. It surges through me every time some other emotion tries to crawl to the surface and it blinds everything else. I'm not emotionless, yet the only sentiment that I truly feel is rage, and when it builds inside me I know something is brewing, deeper down.  
Nothing, no one, has ever enraged me as much as Helena has, and in such little time.

What am I to do, then? 

I shrug the thought off and get in a cab, I have business to attend to, for fuck's sake. Mr. Corrs is a repugnant human being, but he'll keep me occupied for a couple of hours hopefully. The city lights all bleed into one single stream as the car speeds through the streets, I'd almost forgotten it's Christmas in a few days. 

Maybe she'll visit her family, so I won't see her for a while. That would be brilliant. Then again, her answering machine was full of messages from her mother, all complaints about Helena never returning her calls. So maybe she won't visit. I'll certainly avoid seeing my brothers. 

As I step inside the restaurant, I wonder how long she'll be waiting in the ER before a doctor decides to see her. A broken wrist isn't high priority, specially not at St. Bart's, what with all the kids with skiing injuries and the old ladies with broken hips... 

I should go see her after I'm done here. I really want to write profanities on her cast.


	12. Helena

12\. Helena

 

The ER is crowded and smells terrible. I want to go home and cry. My wrist is starting to swell, though, so I guess I'll just breathe with my mouth for now. I hear babies crying and it makes me want to throw up. There's an old lady sitting across from me and she's been staring blankly at the wall behind me for ten straight minutes without blinking. Maybe she's dead. She certainly looks dead...

Doctors are coming in and out of rooms and running around talking to nurses and patients. None of them look very interested in helping anyone, specially not me - there's kids with broken legs and old people dying around me, I guess they come first. Stupid system, really. Is there anyone I know here? Anyone I've kept out of jail? I can't think of anyone. At least I can think now. The pain is less sharp, probably because the wrist swelled up nicely. I don't know. I just wanna get this over with and leave.

A dark haired doctor glances at me and I hesitantly raise my injured arm. He raises a single brow in response and walks off in the opposite direction. Great. Brilliant.  
After two hours of agony, the corridor is almost empty. It’s getting late, and thankfully the babies in the nursery have stopped whining. Another doctor wanders in and looks around. 

“Can I help you, miss?” he asks politely. I feel like punching him in the face, but lucky him: Jim broke the hand I punch with. I tell him he could’ve helped me three hours ago, now he can only go down on his knees and pray I won’t sue. The twat laughs. Did I sound like I was joking? Hannah says I never do.

Hannah, right. Should I call in sick tomorrow? Doctor Jerkface thinks so, so I won’t, on principle.

 

************

 

When I get home I pop a few painkillers and sit on the couch. I’m afraid if I go to sleep I won’t ever want to get up again. 

My skin itches under the cast, of course it does.

This has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. The list of stupid things I’ve done in my life isn’t very long, to be honest. I’m not one to act on impulse, I never want to look stupid. 

I guess, looking at it like that, I ended up doing the stupidest thing in my life because I didn’t want to look stupid. I’ll take physical injury over emotional shame any day of the week.

My mother was right, I’ll die alone and the only people at my funeral will be criminals I kept out of jail. I can’t believe I just said that, my mother also thinks she has brain cancer every time she gets a headache, so obviously she’s not always right.

Do I regret not telling him how I feel? Yes. No. Yes? No, definitely not.

A little bit. Despite all my efforts my mom read me fairytales as a child so buried deep deep down inside I have a tiny glimmer of hope that happy endings are a thing. I usually pretend it’s not there, but what if? What if I married him and we had five babies? I can’t have babies, right, sorry. What if I married him and we got five cats and two dogs? Somehow I don’t think Jim would like that, there’d be animal hairs all over his precious suits.

This is the worst night I’ve had in a while, feelings-wise. I’m going to watch a gory movie and laugh.

 

***********

 

Three “Friday 13th”s later, I’ve eaten all the secret chips I keep under the couch for emergencies and got a pencil stuck in my cast, but I still don’t feel any better.

My phone goes “ding” beside me. I read the text.

“Your mother is worried about you, please call; or better yet, come home for the holidays. –Lou.”

Don’t you hate it when your stepfather texts you in the early hours of the morning and makes you feel even worse than you did before? I know I do. I text him back saying I’ll call at a decent hour. I will not, nor I’ll go home for the holidays. Besides I only have one day off. I could take more, but what would be the point?

The phone rings again, I roll my eyes and read. But it’s not Lou.

“Are you awake? –JM”

Yes, I answer, I am. He doesn’t text back. I start the fourth Friday 13th, and ten minutes in there’s a knock on the door.


	13. Jim

13\. Jim

When I get to the restaurant, I ask for Mr. Corrs' table and the metre takes me to a corner booth - the kind of spot most people would pick for a romantic dinner, actually. My stare shifts from the metre to the man at the table. I've never seen Mr. Corrs before, he'd only spoken on the phone to Moran and we'd exchanged a few e-mails. This man, though, I know.

"Prosecutor Stark?" I inquire, a wide grin spreading across my features. "I'm assuming you're Mr. Corrs."

He stands up to shake my hand, and I do so without my grin ever faltering. 

"Forgive my ruse, I couldn't risk this getting out," he says.

"Naturally," I snort, taking a seat. "I don't know how you found me, Mr. Prosecutor, but since I'm a gentleman I will share some information with you: there are men right outside this window," I hiss, giving a little nod to the window on our right, "and they will shoot you."

"There will be no need for that," he quickly replies.

"Very well, then, I hope you brought your checkbook," I smile, as the waiter pours us wine. I tell him to give us a few more minutes. "Tell me your troubles, sweetness."

"It's very simple. I'm working on a case - I won't bore you with the details, you wouldn't be interested, but just know the prosecution has been building this case for years. We are inches away from getting the guy, finally. Unfortunately, the opposing counselor is not to be taken lightly. She will go to any lengths necessary to save her client, and I can't have that on this case. If he walks free, five years of work will go up in smoke for me and my team, Mr. Moriarty. Do you see where this is going?"

Oh, I see where it's going, alright. I nod weakly.

"The barrister's name is Helena Stevens. She works at Hart & Walkers," he continues.

"Why her?" I ask. "Is it just a matter of ego, Stark? Frankly, from where I'm sitting, getting rid of her client would be easier and more efficient."

"And what about the next case, or the one after that? I want her gone."

"Have you considered the possibility that you just suck as a lawyer?"

"If by that you mean that I don't lie and cheat to get my verdicts, then yes, I suck."

"I'll be in touch, Mr. Stark," I say, wiping my mouth with the handkerchief. I stand up and leave.

This is the last thing I needed tonight. Would've never happened if I'd strangled her when I had the chance. What is it about this woman that makes everyone so scared? Personally,   
I think it's the look in her eyes. You can see there's nothing to lose for her. He's right, she would go to any lengths necessary to get what she wants, even if it kills her. She's burning up, faster by the minute, and she doesn't care - actually she can't wait to burn out.

Reminds me of someone.

The car takes me home and I go to my study to work. There's stars to gaze at and orbits to calculate and all that shit I love so much. Is it because I want to leave this planet? I like to think it's only because I want to understand everything. I look around and I see numbers, and so long as there's numbers then there's hope for me to understand it all. And then bend it to my liking.

She's an equation I haven't solved yet, that's what she is. But sooner or later I will solve her, I will leave her behind. I just hope that will be sooner rather than later.

If I find a new star tonight I'll call it Helena, I will map it and see how far it is from us. If she's lucky, it will be one of those stars that are already dead. We can see its light because that takes thousands of years to reach us, but it's actually not there anymore.

Do I take Stark's money and off her? My brain says no and my heart says yes. Oddly enough I wonder why it's not the other way around. I still have a couple of hours to stargaze, then I'll make up my mind.

 

******************

 

I weigh the phone in my hand, trying to decide whether to call Sebastian and tell him to go take care of her. This is a job I could - and should? - do myself, anyway. I put the phone down. It's almost dawn, I can take the car and be at her place in 15 minutes. I can gut her from belly to throat and scatter her entrails all over London. I can buy her a pretty ring and ask her to be mine. Fucking hell, I don't know what to do.

The easy way out of this, is to have Sebastian kill prosecutor Stark instead. I'm betting he didn't tell anyone about our little rendez-vous. He wants to pass off as a saint, but trust me, that man has more skeletons in his closet than all of his colleagues put together.

I take the phone again and text her, then I put my suit back on and call the car. I'm already on my way there when she texts back. As soon as I get there, I regret it. 

I almost walk back down the stairs, but I hear the TV through the door and I can just picture her curled up on the couch, trying so hard to focus on the movie, completely unaware that I'm here, and that there's a 90% chance that I'm here to kill her.

I knock.


	14. Helena

14\. Helena

These five steps to the door seem endless. The floor creaks, I’d never noticed how loud the sound is before. I look through the peephole and see black, he must have his finger on the glass. Asshole.

I raise my arm to fix my hair but the pain reminds me I can’t use this arm. For a second there, I forgot. I use the other hand then, and open the door.

Jim is facing the stairs, lost in thought. He tilts his head from one side to the other, silently pondering some scheme I will never know about. Finally, he turns towards me, narrow-eyed, his ever-present smirk gone. All this time I thought I knew just how utterly terrifying he could be: I was dead wrong. The way he’s looking at me right now, this is what “utterly terrifying” looks like. I’m far too exhausted to comment, let alone be witty. I wait for him to speak.

“Are you going to let me in, dearie?” he cants. I say nothing, but I move out of the way. He walks in calmly, measuring the floor with each step. I close the door. Jim lurks by the liquor cabinet, carefully examining it.

“How’s your wrist?” he asks casually, not even facing me.

“Broken,” I answer. He turns for just a second and smirks bitterly. “Why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look troubled, that’s not how you usually look when you’re here.”

“Really? And how do I usually look?”

“Like an idiot,” I snort.

“You should weigh your words carefully, sweetheart.”

“I always do,” I smile. “I’m a lawyer.”

It’s as if the sound of that word sent a jolt of electricity through Jim. His expression is different now, like something just clicked in his brain and he can stop worrying. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad for me. My heart is racing, I can hear it in my ears, I can feel it pumping inside my chest. The wrist is the last of my concerns right now, I need to keep up appearances. Jim crosses the floor and runs his fingers through my hair. He’s so close I can smell his aftershave, and it reminds me of all the things I want to do to him. My eyes are watery from the painkillers, but I can’t avoid his stare.

“There’s something about the way you hold yourself that is very nearly royal, Helena,” he soothes, his fingers tracing my jaw and neck. “It’s all fake. You’re a lost Vermeer painting, forged exquisitely, a perfect replica. I know a thing or two about fakes, see.” he smiles. “Your goal is to inspire Stendhal syndrome, and truth be told you do. But is that fair to the world? Oh, well, I don’t care about the world… But pray tell, how does it feel to lie in bed at night and not know where the act ends and you begin?” he smirks, but it’s almost a grimace.

His hands are around my neck now, his eyes still locked into mine. He’s not choking me, his hands are just resting there, he looks like he’s ready to strike but he’s not quite sure he wants to.

“You should know,” I answer his final question, and he looks surprised for a second, he obviously meant for it to be rhetorical. His surprise soon turns into anger, and he pushes me away. I bump on the back of the couch, but manage to stay on my feet. He’s pacing around the room now, lost in thought again.

His points are valid, I’m not gonna lie. You can get anywhere you want with my kind of cynicism, it can be applied to every job, every situation, even to love. You just need to be very good at playing pretend. Like when I pretended to cry at my father’s funeral, or after it when the cops questioned me about the accident and I told them I had nothing to do with it. 

You tell a lie long enough and it becomes the truth, that’s what they say, right? 

Well, I didn’t get all the way to the top just to be knocked down by feelings I forgot I could feel. It’s hard to tell the difference when you’ve made believe your whole life, but signs point to the worst case scenario today. I’ve been weak, I’ve let Jim have his way, and for what? Fairytales? I’m too old for those.

And yet there’s that fluttering in my chest again when he turns his head and stares at me. It could be great, we could be great. 

“You’re so afraid to let yourself go, aren’t you? Why is that?” he asks, approaching me. He studies my expressionless face closely, one arm around my waist and the other undoing the ribbon in front of my robe.

“I’m scared if I let down the wall, I will never be able to put it back up,” I confess, shaky. What’s the point in lying to him now? He sees through it anyway. The dressing gown falls from my shoulders on the floor and he cups my ass and lifts me up on the back of the couch, spreading my legs with his own.

“What else are you afraid of?” he breathes against my lips.

“You,” I whisper, because it’s true and because that’s what he wanted to hear. He gets off on power as much as I do. He looks proud of himself, smiles widely and kisses me. It’s death all over again, it’s broken wrists and razorblades.

He bucks his hips forward and grabs my hair, his lips leave mine for a second and he asks: “What would you do if this was your last day on earth?”, his eyes glittering ominously. 

“You,” I repeat, this time with a smile.


	15. Jim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry guys, I'm having some personal issues and I really haven't been in a writing mood lately. Thank you for all the support and the comments and the kudos and the tumblr messages, I appreciate every single reader and I just wanted you to know! I hope you enjoy this new chapter, and let me know what you think! <3

15\. Jim

 

Is this what doubt feels like? I'm not used to it. 

As I deepen the kiss, I wonder if Helena is worth my reputation, my whole empire. The first thought that crosses my mind is that she's not: she's worth much more than that.

I pull away from her lips and her eyes study me, she looks frightened and uncharacteristically helpless. I wonder what I look like to her.

"I've had a nice chat with a friend of yours last night," I spit out. Why am I even telling her? "Prosecutor Stark?"

"Stark? What could you two possibly have to talk about?" she asks, and her eyes are ice cold now.

"I suppose it's time I explained what it is exactly that I do for a living," I giggle. "Or would you like to take a wild guess?"

"I really wouldn't," she says. Her eyes don't betray it, but I know she's afraid of guessing wrong. That would be tragic, she wouldn't be top of her class anymore! It's ridiculous how much she fears inadequacy.

"Well," I start, licking my lips. "I fix problems. Our dear prosecutor, for example! His problem is your current trial, and he's willing to pay good money to... take you out of the equation, so to speak. What I do is set things up so you won't be a problem for him anymore. Sometimes I help planning heists, sometimes I overthrow governments and sometimes I help governments get rid of rebels, sometimes I make people disappear..." I grin. Helena doesn't look surprised; if I had to describe her reaction I'd say she looks turned on. Fucking bitch.

"You're a consultant," she observes. "Like that guy who's been helping the Yard, only on the opposite side of the fence."

"Yes, dearie. Exactly like that," I smirk bitterly, moving her hair away from her neck. Helena tilts her head to the side to meet my hand, and places her own on my tie to loosen the knot.

"Basically," she whispers, pulling me a bit closer to her, "you're going to kill me tonight."

"That is the plan, yes," I grin. Is it really? 

"Do you mind fucking me first?" she purrs, with the meanest smile I've seen her manage.

"Of course, pet. I'm nothing if not a gentleman," I smile back.

She kisses me, nervously undoing the buttons on my shirt, and I cup her ass and lift her up to slam her against the nearest wall. She hits her head and lets out a throaty giggle. 

There are so many ways I could kill her, the possibilities are virtually endless... I kiss her again, she bites my lips and wraps her legs tighter around my hips. This isn't going to work. If it's the last time I have her, I want to be able to use my hands.

I carry her back to the couch and drop her down, and as soon as I crawl on top of her and feel her skin against mine once more, I know I won't kill her.

Not today, at least. 

She's ice cold to the touch, and she quivers under me when I bite her neck. For some reason, I'm not in the mood for games today. I kiss her. I kiss her again, I kiss her until my jaw hurts and her lips bleed. Her arms are around my neck, holding me in place firmly, almost desperately. I feel I don't ever want her to let go.

I move farther down her body, trailing kisses from her collarbone to her stomach, as I slide out of my trousers. Helena nests her fingers in my hair and pulls me back up to her lips, her hands on my shoulderblades and mine all over her.

I move a hand down between her legs and tease her, she moans my name and I'm in heaven, or is it hell? I'm not sure of anything anymore. 

Why is she holding on to me so tightly? What is it that makes her tick? Is she attracted to danger or just to death? 

Most people would think she has a deathwish because she feels she doesn't deserve life. I know better, as usual: death is the prize, not the punishment. That's why she can't do it herself, she needs to be awarded death, as a slow and painful coronation of everything she's accomplished.

She won't get it from me; I won't give her the easy way out, because I can't take it myself. I'm not big on selflessness, and as long as she shares my despair I have someone to bully outside of myself. I can focus on everything else if I'm not busy dealing with my own demons, I can stop putting so much effort into blocking them out because they're inside her and I can abuse her.

She can't die, not tonight, not ever.

Her breath is ice cold on my neck and it derails my thoughts. She's mouthing a curse, or maybe a prayer, her nails digging in the flesh of my shoulderblades. I see something else through the hellfire in her eyes and I realise I'm wrong in assuming I only want her because she's useful, I see so much passion and so much fear, and every other sentiment she and I forgot we could feel. I wish I could pour my heart out to her like I've never done before, the hellfire from her eyes is in my lungs now, it tries to escape through my tear ducts and I stop it just in time. 

I grab her hands and pin them on each side of her face, then smash into her as rudely as I can. What gives you the right, Helena? How dare you take so much from me? I won't let you, I won't let you tear me apart. She moans and quivers as I pick up pace. Somehow this feels more intimate than all those other times, even though I'm holding her in place and not even kissing her anymore, it's just mechanics right now, and yet it's deeper than ever before. 

I don't want it but I can't stop.

What does she see now? Does she know what she's doing? I think so, somehow she always knows. She's a better faker than I am, because she's not as angry as I am. She's a much more vicious manipulator because she is and has always been in complete control... I wonder if I'm the first to crack her perfect shell, or has she slipped up before? If my deadly sin is wrath (with a side of hubris), then hers is definitely lust, in the wider sense of the term. She craves so many things and so deeply it's consuming her, it's eating her from the inside. Lust motivates her and it's not as dispersive a motivator as wrath, that's why she manages to live in the real world while I'm locked up in the center of my web as if I were a fly myself, and not the spider everyone sees me as. Does she realise that? Does she know I'm a bit envious now? I bet she was a cheerleader, while I was a mathlete freak.

Her pretty features are tense now, I can't tell whether it's from pain or pleasure. Possibly both. I don't let up for a second, even if she's struggling to break her hands free from my grip, until I waste myself inside her, hoping she can't see how exposed I am at the moment. I haven't been paying attention and I frankly don't care if she's done or not. I let go of her hands and I let go of everything else as I stand up and leave her there panting. 

I head for the liquor cabinet and pour myself some scotch, stealing a glance at her. She hasn't moved from the couch, but she's holding her wrist to her chest and her breathing hasn't slowed.

Her wrist is broken, I... I forgot. I must have been hurting her, twisting her hands like that. I down the scotch and grind my teeth. 

She's definitely worth more than my whole empire.


	16. Helena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been forever! I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long, I had an awful case of writer's block... Hope you'll enjoy this new chapter!

16\. HELENA

The thing about broken bones is that the pain they cause is so different from any other type of injury. 

When I was a kid I burnt myself cooking and I thought that was the worst kinda of pain imaginable, I thought nothing would ever hurt more than that. I was very wrong, but that's not the point. The point is that that didn't make me afraid of being in pain again, it made me curious. I started wondering how much more I could take, I made it a habit to hurt myself with everything that is considered dangerous. I was curious, but I was also trying to prepare myself, so I'd be ready if anything ever happened to me.

I'd never broken a bone before. 

The pain is sharp and dry, it doesn't burn and it doesn't pulsate. Coincidentally, that's the same kind of pain I'm in whenever James is around me.

He downs his scotch as I put my robe back on and go have a glass of water. Somehow I don't think he meant to hurt me this time, it's written all over his face. I jump when I close the door to the fridge to find him there, staring at me.

"Did they give you any painkillers?" he asks.

"They did, but I'm not taking them," I shrug. "Is this the part where you shoot me, or do you want to go a few more rounds first?" I grin.

"Shoot you?" he chuckles. "Don't be dull, pet..." he hisses, tucking my hair behind my ear. He grabs the back of my neck and roughly pulls me closer to him, gazing down at my neck. "If I were to kill you, there'd be bloodshed. I would cut you up so nicely, every inch of your pretty little body would be bleeding, and I'd never let you lose consciousness, so you could see me hurting you and you could feel everything I do... I'd save your throat for last, slice it from side to side so deeply your head would almost fall off..." he whispers in my ear, with a wicked smirk. "But I'm not going to do that, my dear," he concludes, letting go of me. 

"Why? Is Stark not paying you enough?" I ask, quizzical.

"I just terribly dislike him, that's all."

I stare, awestruck, as Jim grabs an apple from the kitchen counter and bites down on it like none of this ever happened.

I expect him to leave any moment now, but he just wanders around the living room, chewing and staring at everything. I have some water before following him back in the room.

"Can I ask you a question, Helena?" he says suddenly, without turning around. He's flipping through one of my law school books, occasionally chuckling to himself as he reads the notes I scribbled on the sides of the pages. 

"Ask away," I sigh, sinking in the couch.

"Why did you become an attorney?" he asks casually, stealing a quick glance at me before going back to the book in his hand.

"Would you believe I watched too much Ally McBeal as a girl?"

"No," he says. I can hear a smirk in his voice. 

"Alright. Law is... order. It's neatly organized, every scenario is accounted for. It's like clockwork. I can never be taken by surprise when it comes to law. My choice doesn't really have anything to do with helping people, and anyway most of the people I help don't deserve it by any moral standard... It has more to do with helping myself. Means to an end. I wanted to feel secure, at ease, calm, and I also wanted to make an ungodly amount of money. And you should know, nothing feels as good as knowing you're better than everyone else in the room: that's how I feel when I'm in court."

Jim closes the book and paces around, probably contemplating my words. My main talent has always been that I can talk myself out of anything. I have mastered the fine art of Talking Out One's Ass. That's one other reason why law school was the obvious choice for me.

Jim stops in his tracks in front of me, and tilts his head to the side, as if wanting to speak but not knowing how to phrase his thoughts properly.

"You can never be taken by surprise," he says then, repeating my words. "Your whole world rests on that one dogma. Is it really so awful, to be taken by suprise? One would think it's thrilling, exciting, but you don't. Why is that?"

"I just don't like chaos, specially not when I'm working. Would you?"

"Depends on what I'm working on..." 

"Well, if I don't know what's happening 24/7, I panic. And I don't like it."

"Fair enough," he shrugs, and drops the subject. He offers me his left hand, and before I can even register the gesture I've already taken it in mine, and I'm letting him lead me through my own house, straight into the bedroom. 

"Does your wrist hurt still?" he asks, with the most concerned tone he can manage, which isn't very concerned at all. We're standing at the foot of the bed, face to face, his hand still in mine. I want to tell him yes, that it hurts all the time, and it hurts even more when he's with me. 

"Not much," I say, looking in his obsidian eyes. His hand leaves mine to grab my waist and pull me closer, and he kisses me. It's a fierce kiss, it's the kind of kiss the hero gives his maiden at the end of the movie, when he's won all the battles and vanquished all the villains. 

I can't help but wonder which battles Jim has won tonight.


	17. Jim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was quick, wasn't it? :D Finally, I'm in the mood to write again! Expect more chapters soon!

17\. JIM

Has anything ever tasted as good as she does? Any murder, any scheme, any expensive suit? The scariest part is the way my stomach flutters and contracts when my hands are on her. It's ridiculous, and it shouldn't be happening. It's too much.

I push her away from me, and she looks startled. When I was holding her, the way she relaxed into my arms and leaned into the kiss told me what I already knew: she feels it too. 

It's disgusting how much I want to never let her out my sight, shameful even. I grind my teeth to keep the words from slipping out - I want you, I need you - and I quickly make my way back to the living room. I get dressed, and she never follows me. I hear nothing. She's probably not even moved. I fix my tie and hang my jacket on my arm, and when I leave I slam the door behind me. Except I don’t leave. I stand outside the door and every inch of me wants to go back inside and hold her.

I’m gripping my jacket so tightly my knuckles are white. Why do I keep running? How does it make any sense at all for me to be in this much pain, when all it takes to make it stop is to go back to her? I’m being so fucking stupid. When I want something, I just take it. So why can’t I turn around and knock? I want her, so why don’t I just take her?

It’s already light out, I hadn’t even noticed. 

What do I have to lose? God, that’s the question that always comes to my mind whenever I’m about to do something insanely moronic. I turn on my heels and raise my hand to knock. Is it weird that I feel like a high school kid asking his crush to the spring dance? Yes, indeed, it is. 

I knock.

Nothing happens for a very long 5 seconds. 

I knock again. 

I hear footsteps getting nearer, but then they get far again. The bitch walked right by the door and into the living room and ignored me. I hear the telly. She’s watching the morning news.

I knock harder. I want to break down this stupid door and snap her neck in two.

She turns the volume of the television up.

I want to kill her so much I might even do it for free.

Fine. Fine, okay. If this is how she wants to play it, then fine. Fucking brilliant. Suddenly, I remember why I didn’t want to knock. Stupid bitch is gonna get her just desserts, trust me.

I call the car and have it drop me in Conduit Street, then I head straight inside the Vivienne Westwood shop. The sales assistant is a pretty blonde in her mid-twenties, and to her I’m Mr. Smith. I see her more often than I see my mother, basically. She says they have a new collection of ties. 

“I’m looking for an evening gown, today,” I smile politely. “Not for me, of course.”

She chuckles, but looks a bit saddened by the implication that I have a lady friend. 

“Right this way then, Mr. Smith,” she smiles with all her teeth. I pick out a long red dress with a V-shaped décolleté that extends on the sides into mid upper-arm straps, fitting all the way to the calves and then looser, longer on the back.

The sales assistant was happy to model it for me. Helena is a bit taller and less busty, so it’ll fit her a lot better than it fits poor Cathy here.

She keeps waving at me through the window until I get in the car and can no longer see her flashing her teeth.

The longer I stay away from Helena, the angrier I’m getting. I get home and place the neatly wrapped box on the kitchen table. Sebastian is cleaning is gun on the other side of the room.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, annoyed. He’s supposed to be working today, isn’t he? How is it that he lives in my house more than I do?

“Finished early, thought I’d drop by with the booty, but you weren’t here,” he explains. “So I waited.”

“Such a good boy,” I purr. “Give it, then.” 

He hands me a flash drive, still hot from being used. There’s a drop of blood on it. I pull a face and give it back. Moran rubs it on it shirt to clean it and gives it back to me. Sometimes I wonder if he grew up in the jungle.

I put it in my pocket as he eyes the box on the table suspiciously. 

“What’s that?”

“It’s a present,” I grunt.

“For me? You didn’t have to, Jimmy...” he squeaks. I give him the dirtiest look, and he stops grinning like an idiot.

“It’s not your size, anyway,” I reply dryly. 

“Is it for her?”

“That's none of your business. I’ve changed the schedule for tonight, I won’t be needing you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m always sure.”

“Alright. Call me if you change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

Sebastian snorts, but leaves without any more complaints. I was supposed to go to another tedious Christmas party with him tonight, to deliver the flashdrive he just brought me and to take care of some foreign ambassador whose name I've forgotten. Instead, I will take Helena with me. 

She wants danger? Oh, I'll give her danger.


	18. Helena

18\. HELENA

I'm not sure where all of this force of will is coming from. My heart thumps in my ears but somehow I manage to ignore it as I pass by the door and sink back in the couch. He knocks like he wants to tear the door down, and I flinch. I wait for it to stop, and it's over sooner than I thought. 

The telly's on but I'm not watching it. I wander into the kitchen and make some coffee, I have to be at the office in less than a hour. 

I'm hurt. I'm not sure how or why, but I am. My whole body is in unbearable, soaring pain. I feel like I'm dying, and yet I'm drinking coffee, getting dressed, taking a cab, going into work. It's like I'm watching myself do all of those things, like I'm not actually here. 

Hannah's smile is blinding as I pass her by and go inside my office. She trails behind me like a dog and places endless sheets of paper on my desk. Apparently shit went down while I was moping around at home. She asks about my wrist, I tell her I'm fine. She leaves. I want to smash my head against the table until it splits in half. 

It's a good thing I don't have to go to court today, I wouldn't be able to handle it. 

I'm on my third coffee of the day when the phone rings. Weird, all calls should pass through Hannah before getting to me.

"Hello?" I answer, leaning forward on my chair to make sure Hannah is at her desk. She is, she's taken the stapler apart and having trouble putting it back together. Good god, she's lucky she's pretty.

"Good afternoon, pet," Jim purrs inside the phone.

"I'm not your pet," I hiss.

"Aren't you?" he chuckles. "I'll have to write that down..."

"What do you want?"

"Don't be rude, Hel. I want to take you out tonight," he soothes. "There's a party at the Explorer's Club."

"I'm not going to a party with you, James."

"Why not?" he asks quickly. There's a soft knock on the glass door, and Hannah is standing there with a box in her hands. I gesture at her to come in, and she leaves the box on my desk.

I don't know how to answer his question. Why not, indeed? What would be so bad about going to a party with him? There'd be champagne and we could dance and... Ah, yes, fairytales. 

"Because I'm busy tonight," I lie, as I unwrap the box.

"No, you're not," he remarks.

"Well, I--" I start, but trail off when I open the box. There's a dress, a beautiful red dress, and on top of it a card that just says 'This would look so good on your bedroom floor'.

"You what?" Jim asks.

"I... can't."

"Don't you like the gown?"

"It's... red."

"Yes indeed, good eye, pet. I'll send a car for you at 7."

"Ji--" I start, but he hangs up before I can curse at him.

I stare at the gift in disbelief, and suddenly I feel fear tugging at my insides. A beautiful dress and a fancy party? He must have something terrifying planned for me. I wonder for a split second whether he's changed his mind about killing me, but I push the thought away, and find myself feeling the fabric of the gown and thinking about Jim taking it off me.

"Hannah," I say into the intercom as firmly as I can manage right now. "I need to see my hairdresser around 5 today. And bring me more coffee, would you?"

"Right away," she chirps.

"Oh, and get me prosecutor Stark on the phone."

I see her nod through the glass door, then pick up the phone, and a few seconds later she speaks again: "Um, miss Stevens, prosecutor Stark hasn't come into work today. Do you want me to try his cell?"

"No, thank you."

I sink back a little more in my chair. This could be a coincidence, of course. Maybe he's just feeling under the weather... Then again, it would be one bloody big coincidence. 

Hannah sets a new cup of steaming coffee on my desk and leaves without a word. I look through my messages as I drink it, and make half a dozen phone calls to clean up messes that aren't even mine. Slow day, all things considered, and all throughout it, Jim is right there in the back of my mind, undoing the zipper on my beautiful red gown and grinning that evil grin of his.

By the time I get to the hair salon, I can think of nothing else other than him, and it annoys me. The girl who's styling my hair asks what's on my mind and I shot her the dirtiest of looks through the mirror. She mutters a "nevermind" and keeps working. She's putting my hair up in high bun, leaving a couple of strands down to frame my face on one side. I never wear my hair up, it looks... odd. Not bad, but odd. I'm not used to styling it much, my curls won't ever stay in one place, but somehow she managed to make me look like some kind of movie star. I tell her I like it, and she smiles cheerfully. 

I have never in my life tried so hard to be pretty. Never had to, everyone always seems to find me rather beautiful anyway. I don't see myself that way, but it's not important so long as everyone else does, so I just started pretending like I have confidence in my looks. Worked so far.

I do my make up, nothing too flashy, I am wearing a fancy red dress, after all. Mascara, bit of eyeshadow, a light shade of red on my lips. I choose a subtle necklace, but diamond earrings. I put on my favourite pair of Jimmy Choos.

It's 6.30.

I look in the mirror and there I am, dressed to the nines, plastic smile, bright eyes: the outside doesn't match the inside, it never has. Lucky me.

I sit on the bed and feel quite ridiculous for the first time in a very long time. Why am I even doing this? I know how this game ends, it ends in bloodshed. The color of my dress is a harsh reminder of that fact, and it was probably intentional on Jim's part.

I count away the minutes until I hear the sound of a car pull up, and I make my way downstairs.


	19. Jim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops. I'm afraid this is going to be painful, guys. It surely was painful to write...

19\. JIM

My heart-rate is unusually high. I should get that checked. 

It's almost 7.30, even with rush hour traffic jams Helena should be here by now. Is she standing me up? Would she even dare do that? Maybe something happened to her. I look up at the sky and count stars for a second. If she stood me up, I will have to kill her for real this time. I'll rip her face off and sew it back on inside out. I'll scatter her entrails... Oh. 

I do have perfect taste in clothes, that is undeniable. She just stepped out of the car, and since she can't see me, I can just cherish the way the gown fits her to perfection without having to worry about her noticing me staring. How I'll manage to not stare in awe for the rest of evening is beyond me right now.

Her hair looks nice, I can see her neck, I like it. Maybe I'll slice it open with a letteropener, in the morning. She's taken the cast off her wrist, which is probably not a good medical decision, but knowing her she wouldn't want to wear a gorgeous evening gown with a cast on her pretty arm...

She looks around, only just realizing where she is. I don't move and I don't make a sound, I can see she hates not knowing what to do, where to find me, how this works: I love it, it's perfect. Her eyes are desperately searching for me. I'm having fun already, what a night! 

Oh, her breathing is getting a bit too fast now, she's panicking. For some reason, I don't want her to. I step out of the shadows and close the distance between us quickly, maybe too quickly. 

Her eyes finally find mine, and she's cold again, perfectly collected. 

"You look dazzling, Helena," I grin, kissing her hand. She's stone cold.

"Why are we going to a Christmas ball at the British Museum, Jim?" she simply asks, a bit annoyed. I chuckle.

"Why not?" I widen my grin, and lead her up the stairs to the main entrance. She follows silently, eyes darting around to see if she knows anyone in the crowd. As we make our way to the bar they set up in the main hall, I greet some clients, and introduce her as my lawyer. Helena isn't very pleased about that, which makes it all the more fun.

"I'm not your lawyer, James," she hisses behind a smile as we break away from the crowd. I chuckle again. 

"Would you rather I tell the truth, then?"

"Fair enough," she sighs.

Two drinks and too many aquaintaces in, I take her hand, just like I did the night we met, and we sneak past two guards and up a flight of stairs, until we're in the Greek wing of the Museum. She's smiling, now. 

"I love this room," she whispers, pacing around among Greek statues and vases. "But you knew that, I'm sure."

"I didn't, actually. I did, however, want to fuck you in a room full of priceless artifacts," I smirk.

She turns her attention away from the statues and slowly walks back to me, until I can smell her perfume. 

"Did you take me to a fancy gala at the British Museum just to do that?" she purrs. "I am almost flattered."

"Don't be ridiculous, pet," I retort, my hands on her hips while I walk her over to the wall. "We could have broken in here any other night for that."

She looks up at me with disappointment, and I push her against the wall. I kiss her softly, almost chastely, and she has her arms around my neck. 

"I have something for you, pet," I purr, breaking the kiss for a second. She looks curious as I reach into my inside pocket and pull out a tiny vial filled with transparent liquid.

"Um, thanks?" she ventures, raising a brow.

"There's a man downstairs," I whisper in her ear. "Ambassador Krovinskij. It's really important that you pour this into his drink."

She pushes me away enough to look me straight in the eyes.

"You want me to kill him," she states flatly, but I can smell the fear coming off her. I gently take her hands from my shoulders, then pin them to the wall above her head with one hand, while the other is playing with a loose strand of her hair. She doesn't fight me, which is odd. 

"I want you to cut loose, dear," I hiss, not one inch from her pretty little mouth. "You need to start having some fun!" I sing-song. It is true, by the way. She takes things too seriously. I know what that's like. 

I love my job, not just the killing, but the planning mostly, the scheming. It makes me feel alive, in a very primitive way. I used to think nothing else would make me feel like that. But she does. She makes me feel like that, and I... I hate it, I hate her. She deserves to be dragged down to hell by my side. 

She's considering telling me to fuck off, I can see it in her eyes.

"Wouldn't be the first time you got blood on your pretty hands, anyway," I whisper in her ear. Her whole body stiffens, and she turns her stare to me so fast I'm surprised her neck didn't snap. "Did your daddy beat you, love? Was he a meanie?" I grin. "Is that why you killed him?" Oh, if looks could kill, I'd be very dead right now. I smile wider. "How old were you, 12? 13? I bet that was the last time you actually felt anything."

"Let me go, James."

"Why would I?" I smirk, tightening my grip. "This is fun!"

If she wanted to, she could break free. She knows it, I know it. She gets off on this just as much as me, she just won't admit it. That's the point of tonight, really. I want to see how far is far enough to break her shell into tiny pieces.

"I was 12," she says then. "And he never touched me. He was a normal father, the kind that never listens when you talk and never takes you seriously. He was so... thick. It drove me insane just how stupid he could be," she goes on, and I just smile and nod. "He always wanted to take me fishing, and that day I agreed to go. I was shocked at how easy it was to push him off the boat. He couldn't swim. He flapped around in the water for a while, calling out my name, and I just stared until he sank down and didn't come back up. I left the boat there and swam back to the pier. My mother was at work all day, she didn't see me go out and she didn't see me come home. No one did."

"Impressive," I grin. She's quiet for a few moments, gathering her thoughts.

"What are you trying to accomplish here, James?" she replies then, decisively. She frees herself from my grip and pushes me so hard I almost lose my balance, and then she pushes me again. "I am not you," she spits out, marking every syllable. "I am not going to kill for you, not now, not ever. You need that man gone? Do it yourself, or have one of your minions do it so you won't wrinkle your suit," she hisses, and I take a step back. She's balling her fists, clearly considering slapping me. I hold her gaze, but it stings. I don't like this. "I may be a sociopath, Jim, and I may be in love with you for some bloody reason, but I am not a lump of clay for you to mold!" she's not yelling, she knows better than to yell right here, right now, but it feels like she is. It feels like she's holding the knife right now, and I need to think fast, because I can't have her holding the knife. 

Then I register what she just said, and so does she, apparently, because she backs away from me, her angry gaze falling like broken glass. It's so quiet, and so loud at the same time.

We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, silently pondering our options at this point. I wish my brain would un-freeze. She is defiant, gazing up at me until her eyes are wet. 

I don't know what to do.

I don't know what to do, and that never happens. I always know what to do, it's basically my bloody job description, fucking hell.

When in doubt, do nothing. Moran told me that once, and I found it was a stupid saying. It doesn't sound as stupid right now.

I walk up to her, expressionless, and I take her hands in mine. She looks startled. I take the vial back, and let her hands go.

I walk away.


End file.
